


inward significance

by lossie



Category: British Actor RPF
Genre: Gen, Prompt Fill, Tumblr Prompt, a bit angsty, and finding your muse, and fluffy as hell, story about art
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-04
Updated: 2013-10-04
Packaged: 2017-12-28 10:41:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/991088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lossie/pseuds/lossie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt fill from hiddlestonfanfictions (59. Listening to “The Notebook (Main Theme)” while simultaneously thinking of Tom could yield, IMHO, a gorgeous prompt).</p>
            </blockquote>





	inward significance

**Author's Note:**

> As per usual I apologize for any mistakes. I’ll try to catch them all later. :)
> 
> Enjoy!

"The aim of art is to represent not the outward appearance of things, but their inward significance.”  
Aristotle  
  
  
The hard planes of his suitably muscular chest and the elegant, almost gentle curve of his collarbones and neck were truly enchanting to watch, especially in the soft glow of the afternoon light. His skin looked warm with just a subtle touch of a pinkish hue here and there, but otherwise it was milky white, as if he never saw sunlight those days. She observed that his cheeks were slightly red, probably from a distant feeling of embarrassment people often display when asked to pose to an act, but to her amusement he still was smiling lightly and seemed at ease, as if determined to not let his nervousness show through.  
  
Liz looked up to his face and decided with a half-smile on her own that it was by far the most astonishing part of his anatomy. Not overly angular, but with a firm jaw-line and cheekbones to die for. His nose was slightly crooked as if it had been broken some years ago and no one bothered to set it, just leaving it be. His eyes were more green than blue today and his eyelashes were casting long shadows on his cheeks, when he was blinking – the slow motion of his lids almost sensual.  
  
Catching her hawk-like look, he chuckled and combed the mop of already messy hair with his a bit shaky hand.  
  
“Are you ready?” He asked. His voice was deep and calm despite all the signs of his unease. She was once again amazed by his self control. When she had been hosting her previous model a few weeks ago, the guy was a walking giggle and was shaking like a leaf even when she wasn’t looking at him.  
  
She exhaled and smiled, waving her hand in the direction of the antique couch. The piece of furniture was made from the chocolate brown wood with golden embellishments. The cover was made of the embroidered dark green silk, the elusive beauty of the crafted flowers truly captivating.  
  
“Lie down and try to get comfortable, please.”   
  
He did as she told him and, with a blush slowly colouring her neck and ears, she observed that he looked even more admirable than before, if that was possible.  
  
Liz lowered her eyes to give him some last-minute privacy before he would be stripped of it and instead focused on her palette. Even before she has become an acknowledged artist, she made her own palette of colours to ensure she could get straight to work without worrying too much about mixing paint to get the right shade of the more complicated ones. She picked the light pinkish-browns for the skin and some delicate reds for his lips and minor eye details. She was half-way through with choosing the right colour for his eyes – there was something lacking in the blue of the winter sky with its pale and icy tones, but the deep emerald of the sea was too rich and warm – when he cleared his throat.   
  
The sight that met her eyes made her absolutely speechless.  
  
He was leaning against the pillows, his face turned in her direction.  His left arm was resting on the back of the couch and the right one was supporting his body weight on the armrest. His right leg was bended and tucked under his left knee. The robe he was wearing was arranged around him in a quite nonchalant manner, but it looked good, even if it was revealing more that was probably appropriate. She was watching, completely bewitched, the motion of long and slender fingers of his left hand as they leisurely toyed  with the lose material of his robe.  
  
Her cheeks were hot with this peculiar feeling of anticipation, but she managed to shake herself out of her daze.  
  
“Have you ever done this before? Posing, I mean,” she asked after clearing her throat several times in order to get herself under control. Her voice was still breathy, through, and a bit too much on the rough side for her liking.  
  
“No. No, I haven’t,” he answered with this nervous smile of his. “Am I doing something wrong?”  
  
“No, everything’s fine. You’re doing great, actually.” She slowly stirred the paint brush in the glass of water, glancing at him briefly. “I’m merely curious. You seem to possess the natural affinity for those kinds of things. If we assume one can inherit the talent for posing, of course.”  
  
He laughed at that.  
  
“Well, I can’t tell. I’m merely doing what is asked of me.”  
  
“I’m still very sorry for the sudden call...,” she started guiltily.   
  
“Don’t apologize again.” He waved her off with a disarming smile. “I’m here willingly, right?”  
  
“Yes. As a favour to my brother,” she stated.   
  
It was a huge inconvenience to her, when she learned two days ago that her next model has resigned. She never had this kind of a problem before. People she was usually working with were such vain creatures it was almost laughable and they enjoyed the given attention. It was almost a miracle that Tom was able and willing to replace the guy on such a short notice and she was really thankful. It gave her an unexpected, but very much welcomed, opportunity to work with him. She highly doubted she would have even a slim chance to ever paint him if not for his friendship with her brother.  
  
“Partially yes,” he answered after a while. “But I was also curious. I saw one of your recent exhibitions and when the opportunity showed itself, I simply volunteered. I really like the way you’re painting. Personally I think you possess the unique ability to show a person’s soul, not merely a body.”  
  
She blushed and her hand shook a little with a sudden nervousness. Liz heard a fair share of compliments in her life – regarding her looks, her talent and other such things – but hearing words of acknowledgement from someone as accomplished and gifted as Tom was a different kind of praise. The one that made you glow with pride.  
  
“Thank you,” she said shortly with a shy smile. He responded with one of his own.  
  
They were silent for a while. Liz was busy doing some last minute preparations and arranging the piece of paper perched on her easel to fit her conception better. Truth be told, Tom’s portrait was the last one for her newest exhibition and even though she had at least a dozen people sitting or laying on this particular couch before for exactly the same purpose, her heart was beating furiously right now. She had absolutely no idea why and it made the whole experience even more challenging than she thought it would be.  
  
“Can you put your right hand a bit down? Splendid. Now I would like you to move your head a bit to the left? Thank you.  And if you can look at some random point in the space...”  
  
“Can I look at you?”  
  
His question was a silent one, but she heard him perfectly clear. It startled her, to say the truth. People posing for her never looked her in the eye during the process of creation. They were usually anxious and stressed out enough without the constant reminder that someone was watching them. Being ain didn't make you any less self-aware when naked, apparently.   
  
But Tom was anything but her previous models and so she nodded in agreement. His eyes locked with hers almost on instant, the look in them intense and somewhat unsettling.  
  
“Now try to move as little as possible,” she breathed out, her voice merely above the whisper.  
  
Liz stirred and mixed the lightest shade for his skin. The ivory was barely visible on the paper, but made a fine outline for the future work. Her brush slowly moved on the thick paper, the paint sinking in. Her eyes were constantly moving back and forth between it and Tom to ensure she was picturing all the subtle curves of his bones and muscles where they belonged. She stopped for a second to admire the way his Adam’s apple moved leisurely up and down when he swallowed and then she was back to work again. The right shading was becoming more and more difficult with each colour she applied, but the body on the paper was taking the right shape little by little.  
  
She flushed her brush and picked the soft forest green to mark the basic outline of his robe. After a moment of thought, she added a bit more water to blur it a little, making the colour a few shades lighter. Then she laid the brush down and chose a thin one for the details. After some more mixing and a brief crisis over the right tint of the dark bluish green that wasn’t good enough for her liking, she added a bit more light blue and only after that started to shade the robe, taking time to ensure all was well blended.  
  
When she looked up at Tom after that, she spotted straightaway that he moved his left hand – his finger tips were now brushing against his collarbone in a very alluring way. She was once again hypnotised by his movements and wondered if he was doing it on purpose to irk her. She found it quite troubling that she didn’t mind it all that much.  
  
Once, when she was still in college and working hard for her dreams to come true, during one of the lectures, her favourite professor told them a story of an artist and his muse. He first met her a long time ago, when he was still but a boy and ever since then he knew she was special in some way or another. As time went by and he grew older and his skill in martial arts became obvious, he realized nobody was able to see her the way he did. He wasn’t in love with her, because that would be too easy and far too cliché, as their professor said with a smile, but he was indeed fond of her. The story was, of course, a metaphor. Its aim was to show them that artists’ perception was different – they should be able to see past the body, even if its beauty is enchanting, and they were supposed to see the very soul of every being.   
  
_That_ , he told them, _iss the most important part of being a true artist – a master in your own craft or field. If you’re unable to see past the body, you’re not good enough for this job and you’ll never be._  
  
It wasn’t very often that she remembered those words. Even after years it seemed a bit unreal to her. The story itself was interesting, sure, but the metaphor? It wasn’t possible to see something that was not even material! Even so she often asked herself if she was really suited to be who she was, because even if people thought otherwise, she was never able to do the expected thing and she was aware there was something lacking in her artworks for years. She dismissed it, but the story was always lurking in the back of her mind, reminding her that she still wasn’t ready.  
  
But today, for the first time in her life, she was able to see and to understand.  
  
Of course that Tom was a beautiful man – that was a matter of stating the fact, really – but there was a lot hidden behind his smiling face and laughing eyes. She saw the pain, engraved deep within him, and the glimmer of a shadow in his eyes, as if his cheerfulness was just a carefully crafted mask.  
  
And so she painted him with this pain and every shadow she was skilful enough to find. She felt so lightheaded out of the sudden, as if the simple fact of _seeing_ unlocked something in her heart and mind.  
  
Her hand was moving fast between the paper, the palette and the glass of water. She was in a trance, stirring, mixing and painting all at once, it seemed; as if she was afraid the bubble she has found herself in would blow up any second, but even in her haste, she remained accurate, her movements precise and steady.  
  
She was done in a record time and the whole process left her breathing heavily.  
  
“You can move now,” she said silently, closing her eyes for a brief moment. When she opened them again, Tom was standing behind her with his gaze fixated on the still-wet painting. After a long few minutes of heavy silence, he laid his hand on her shoulder, his fingers caressing the skin exposed by her dress. She shivered.  
  
His eyes stayed unreadable, when he gave her a shadow of a smile.  
  
“I have never seen my soul so clearly before,” he said, his voice somewhat thick and slightly faltering at the end. “Thank you,”  
  
She didn’t answer him. There was no need for words and they both knew that.  
  
The only thing that mattered was a secret finally shared between and known only to an artist and her muse.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm thinking about writing a sequel to this story. Let me know, if you would like to read some more about Liz and Tom c;


End file.
